‘Planning to end your life and actually doing it are two very different things.’
‘Your medical notes suggest a history of depression. You spent time in a facility similar to this one, eighteen months ago.’
‘Why did you ask if I’ve seen a psychiatrist before when you already know the answer?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘Okay, so yes, I did go to Beachy Head to kill myself, is that what you want to hear? But I didn’t go ahead with it, did I?’
‘Why?’
I think back to three days ago, and to the storm. To the rain lashing my face, the soaking wet clothes clinging to my body, and to looking out over the silver sea and its beckoning waves. Finally, down to the jagged rocks below. And I remember how, just as I was about to relinquish control of my body to the wind and let it carry me over the edge, Iheard her voice. She spoke to me, quite gently but with absolute clarity. I decide not to answer his question but ask one of my own.
‘Does everyone have a voice in the back of their head?’
‘Most people have an internal monologue, yes.’
‘What if it’s not your voice? What’s that called?’
I have all of his attention now. ‘It can be one of many things, such as dissociative identity disorder. People can feel as if they can have several personalities inside them, that can control their behaviour at different times and in different ways. These identities can have their own histories and traits.’ He gazes at me for one long moment. ‘Is that what’s happening to you? Did a voice belonging to someone else suggest you end your life?’
I don’t tell him it actually saved it.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I just changed my mind.’
‘And what’s to stop you changing your mind again and going ahead with it when you leave here?’
‘I won’t,’ I reply confidently.
It’s true. Because she won’t let me. And now I know she’s here, I don’t want to. She has my best interests at heart. She has shown me a way forward. A way for me to live.
She’s made me understand that it’s not myself I need to kill.
January
Ten Months Before Bonfire Night
Chapter 8
Margot
‘You are not wearing those bloody awful things to school,’ I object as Frankie reaches the bottom of the stairs.
‘What’s wrong with them?’ she asks, defiantly folding her arms.
‘You know perfectly well. They’re not part of the school uniform.’
‘But they’re black.’
‘They’re Crocs, Frankie.’ I’m always willing to put myself in someone else’s shoes. But not if they’re wearing rubber crimes against couture. ‘The letter your head of year sent you home with last time says school shoes only.’
‘And did you always do what you were told when you were at school?’
‘Of course,’ I lie.
As it happens, I had my eyebrow and nose pierced and was sent home every time I refused to take them out. But once again, the truth will not serve.
‘They’re unflattering and make you look like a boy,’ I continue.
